Mortmain Hall

by Martin Edwards

  “If only to disarm his students, the young men he swooned over,” Sylvia said.

  “Quite. Your husband played a crucial role behind the scenes during the general strike. He did not march or stand on a picket line, but his brains guided the leaders’ strategy. The Masqueraders regarded him as one of the most dangerous men in Britain. He certainly wasn’t the wisest. He trusted Payne, and he also trusted you. Thanks to your help, the Masqueraders were no longer reliant on Payne. Information you gleaned from Gorrie helped the authorities to crush the strike.”

  “I had no official role, let me assure you of that.”

  “That’s the drawback of your kind of service,” Rachel said. “You are denied public recognition. Gorrie remained a thorn in the establishment’s flesh. Like Evison, he represented the enemy within. So the Masqueraders decided he must be dealt with.”

  “My only observation is this,” Sylvia said. “I can see the wisdom of cutting cancerous cells out of a body they are destroying.”

  “You took a lover, handsome enough to give you some pleasure and stupid enough to do your bidding. You egged him on, hoping that he’d provoke Gorrie into an indiscretion, sexual or otherwise. Gorrie would be ruined, and with any luck he’d kill himself rather than face public shame. Even if he didn’t, you’d divorce him amid a blaze of recriminations. His reputation would be destroyed. The scheme was flawed by the Masqueraders’ characteristic failing, a tendency to over-elaborate. Your lover was besotted with you. Crazed. The moment Gorrie fell into the lake, you saw a way of ridding society of his idealistic nonsense forever. In a split second, you made up your mind. Your husband died, and you and your lover were tried for his murder.”

  “The trial was a farce,” Sylvia said. “I should never have been charged.”

  “It wasn’t in your script,” Rachel agreed. “Your letters to your lover went too far. If only he’d burned them, as you begged, but he broke his promise. All’s well that ends well, though. The Masqueraders made sure you were reprieved, and your loyalty duly rewarded. You’re now a wealthy woman. The solitary fly in the ointment was Leonora Dobell. She believed the trial process was manipulated to ensure your acquittal, and she was right. A senile judge was given the case. If the worst came to the worst, and you were convicted, the verdict was bound to be overturned on appeal. As things turned out, the jury rebelled against the Judge’s ravings, and you were set free.”

  “Rightly so. The proceedings were a farce. An insult to British justice.”

  “Leonora had her own reasons for questioning the way justice works in our world.”

  “I was acquitted. No more needs to be said.”

  “As I said,” Rachel murmured, “this is a fable, an exercise in imagination. And the Masqueraders are inventive as well as enterprising. They strive to transform setbacks into fresh opportunities. Leonora Dobell baffled them. They didn’t know what to make of her, or of this rather exclusive house party. My presence became another cause of concern. But they came up with a bold solution.”

  She looked at Sylvia, Rolland, and Danskin. “You were told to accept her invitation and try to recruit Leonora to the ranks of the Masqueraders.”

  Jacob could contain himself no longer. “Are you serious?”

  “Be quiet,” she snapped. “The idea was ingenious. Leonora was a dark horse, an eccentric and unpredictable maverick, but that equipped her for unusual, covert activities. As mistress of Mortmain Hall, she had a position in society, and her interest in crime gave her valuable connections.”

  “Fanciful,” Rolland sniffed.

  “Your duties didn’t end there. You were also told to sound me out to see if I would come on board. That’s why Sylvia wanted to talk to me in private, just as she did with Leonora last night.”

  Rolland breathed out. “This is an extraordinary farrago, Miss Savernake. Not a word of truth in any of it, but I’ll say one thing. If this secret body did exist, I can see that you have the qualities to make a mark on it.”

  “I’m flattered,” Rachel said. “Or am I? However, the question doesn’t arise, because I’ve merely beguiled you with a story while the rain teems down.”

  Sylvia Gorrie could no longer hold back. “And frankly, you are as credible a murder suspect as the rest of us.”

  “I can’t deny it.”

  Lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, this time almost at the same instant. Sylvia said, “Two women have died here. The nurse and Mrs Dobell. Are you indulging a taste for the fantastic or distracting attention from a crime of your own?”

  “A fair question.” Rachel glanced through the rain-smeared window. “Did I hear a car pull up outside?”

  “Expecting someone else?” Danskin’s tone was sardonic. “Surely the party is over?”

  “Sergeant Whealing has been busy,” Rachel said. “He’s brought a number of witnesses up from the village.”

  “Witnesses?” Rolland glared. “Witnesses to what?”

  “Patience,” Rachel said. “All will be revealed.”

  28

  Sergeant Whealing shepherded the newcomers into the library as soon as their wet coats had been taken away by a maid. He’d brought Lucy Hepton, her mother, old Bob Hepton, and the ornithologist Siddons. All four were pale after their buffeting by the storm. The two men grumbled while Mrs Hepton looked overawed by her surroundings. Lucy, on the other hand, was in her element. She’d put on her best summer frock, and on seeing Jacob, she gave him a delighted wink and shifted her chair so that it was next to his.

  Henry Rolland had found the whisky decanter, and he and Danskin had already refilled their tumblers. Siddons, with a disapproving stroke of his goatee, refused a drink and so, with considerable reluctance, did Jacob. Inspector Oakes stared out at the rain through one of the narrow windows. Sylvia Gorrie was whispering in the major’s ear.

  “Welcome to Yorkshire, Sergeant!” Jacob said. “Foul out there?”

  The policeman gave him a sour look. “Never seen anything this bad back home,” he said. “Like Armageddon. Pitch-black sky, floods on the lane. The noise of the storm is deafening.”

  Rachel closed her book and rapped it on the table to gain attention. “Thank you for coming,” she said to the new arrivals. “I’m grateful for your help.”

  “What’s this all in aid of?” Mrs Hepton asked. “I’ve not done owt wrong.”

  “Perish the thought,” Rachel said. “Lucy, I have a question.”

  Lucy looked around in surprise. “For me?”

  Rachel picked up a piece of paper that had lain folded down on the table. It was the message found in Leonora’s room. She read it aloud.

  “It’s a message from someone whose name begins with ‘L’. Did you send it, by any chance?”

  Lucy’s face turned scarlet. “I never!”

  Mrs Hepton was outraged. “She’s a good girl, is Lucy.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Rachel said. “And I never believed you sent the note. But I had to ask.”

  Danskin said. “Surely ‘L’ stood for Leonora? So she must have written it.”

  “That’s the obvious conclusion, yes,” Rachel said. “And like so many obvious conclusions, it’s wrong.”

  “I don’t understand,” Rolland said. “What is the significance of this scrap of paper?”

  “It’s the key to the crime,” Rachel said. “The murder of Leonora Dobell, whose body was found a short time ago.”

  Sylvia Gorrie said, “You’re suggesting her death wasn’t accidental?”

  “Surely,” Danskin said, “she murdered the nurse, and then fell into the water while she was trying to get away?”

  Rachel shook her head. “That’s what we were meant to think.”

  “What exactly are you saying?” Rolland demanded.

  “The murderer knew that Leonora enjoyed the company of other women, and that she’d taken a shine to Lucy here.” The young woman stifled a cry of dismay. “The purpose of the note was to lure Leonora out of the house, so as to kill her. The culpri
t hit her on the head: there’s a bloodstain in the rotunda. And then she was hurled over the side of the cliff, into the sea.”

  Danskin swore. “Are you saying that the nurse killed her, instead of the other way round?”

  “No, Bernice Cope was innocent. Of murder, at least.”

  “Then how was the nurse killed? Surely it wasn’t an accident, a complete coincidence?”

  “Not at all. She was integral to the murderer’s plan.”

  “What?” Rolland’s eyes almost popped out of his head.

  “The murderer asked her to pass the note to Leonora. It must have been in an envelope, and I’m sure there was some elaborate lie about what the note contained, and why it needed to reach Leonora in secret.”

  “It wasn’t Lucy’s doing!” Mrs Hepton was appalled. “My daughter had nowt to do with it!”

  “No,” Rachel said. “Of course she didn’t. Nurse Cope had an admirer. She was devoted to him. She’d do anything he said. Including keeping his identity secret.”

  Jacob shot a glance at Rolland and Danskin. Both men were staring at Rachel.

  “With Leonora dead, the nurse had served her purpose. More than that, she was a threat, the one person who might betray him. It wasn’t a risk he dared take. So having arranged to meet her on the edge of the cliffs, he killed her too. Two women died, a supposed murderer and her victim.”

  Sylvia Gorrie said, “Why on earth would anyone go to such lengths?”

  “I was puzzled too. It seemed to me that two different minds were at work. Two separate artists in crime. Why would anyone want to commit a murder at precisely the moment when several guests were present at the Hall? People who have previously found themselves mixed up in murder cases?”

  Rolland stirred. Shooting a glance at the recent arrivals, he said gruffly, “I trust you’re not going to repeat your bizarre… fable, Miss Savernake?”

  “No,” she replied. “The answer to the conundrum is self-evident. The house party provided the murderer with cover. A chance to confuse the picture. To camouflage a crime that might otherwise have appeared too obvious.”

  “Too deep for me,” Danskin muttered.

  “The murderer learned of the forthcoming house party from Reggie Vickers. Poor Reggie has a lot to answer for, including my being here. Louis Morgans was equally indiscreet, and the information he gave was even more important. Not that the murderer was responsible for the recent deaths of either Reggie or Morgans. They were a bonus, although I doubt the murderer had much to worry about from either man. They were Londoners through and through and he was as sick and tired of them as he was of the city. He wanted to come home.”

  “Home?” Mrs Hepton asked.

  “Yes,” Rachel said. “To Mortmain Hall.”

  She was about to say something else when everyone heard the sound of a terrible crash which made the thunderclaps seem like a throat-clearing. Danskin swore; so did old Bob Hepton. Mrs Hepton shrieked, and Lucy flung her arms around her. Siddons was biting his nails. Everyone turned to the window. Jacob jumped off his chair and took a look outside. Hard as it was to peer through the torrential rain, the sight that greeted him took his breath away.

  Rachel was by his side. “Jacob, what is it?”

  “It’s getting wilder,” he said. “The storm has torn the roof right off the stable block.”

  *

  Lucy’s mother whimpered and Siddons closed his eyes. Rolland downed the rest of his whisky in a single gulp. Oakes barked at them to keep calm. Sergeant Whealing, closest to the door, stood up.

  The door was flung open and Gladys stumbled into the room. Her face was like a ghost’s, her voice scratchy and fearful. “Sorry to break in, miss, don’t mean to be rude, but the cliff’s giving way! The far end of the walled garden is slipping into the sea.”

  As Mrs Hepton screamed again, Oakes took charge. “Whealing! Take a look outside. Don’t go far. See what’s going on and report back.”

  The sergeant raced out of the room as Oakes turned to the others. “Everyone else, stay where you are. I don’t want anyone running into danger. We must stick together. Keep you all safe.”

  “We need to go!” Danskin hissed. “This building was close to the clifftops before they started to crumble. You heard that racket. If the stables are going, it’s this place next. It could fall around our necks any moment now. If we don’t get away fast, we could be buried alive.”

  Mrs Hepton wailed loudly and buried her head in her daughter’s arms. The major stood up, looking at Danskin with disgust.

  “The inspector is right,” he barked. “You could be killed by a falling roof tile. Show some discipline. Anyone who leaves may be rushing straight to their death.”

  “I agree,” Rachel said calmly. “Sergeant Whealing will be back in a few moments. Meanwhile, let me resume the story which Mother Nature so rudely interrupted.”

  Dry-mouthed, Jacob considered her. What had this woman experienced in her life, to harden her nerves so that even the risk of death in a landslide barely caused a flicker of the eyelids?

  Oakes nodded. “Very well. But time is short.”

  Rachel smiled. “Bear with me. I like to build suspense.”

  “Get on with it, for God’s sake!” Danskin yelped.

  “What did you mean, the murderer was coming home?” Sylvia demanded.

  “He was the heir to Mortmain,” Rachel said. “He was Felix Dobell’s illegitimate son.”

  *

  For a moment nobody spoke. The crumbling cliffs were forgotten. Everyone in the room, with one exception, stared at Rachel.

  “You’re wrong,” Rolland said. “A bastard can’t inherit property. Only a lawful heir.”

  “A common misconception,” Rachel said. “In limited circumstances, it’s possible, if the wording of the will or settlement allows it. There is case law on the point. And Oswyn Dobell instructed his solicitor to draft the Dobell Family Settlement in broad and generous terms. When he finally inherited Mortmain, he made sure that in future, the widow of an heir wouldn’t be thrown out of her home once her husband died. She’d become a life tenant. Equally, an illegitimate child could inherit, provided he was alive at the time the deed was made. Not that Oswyn expected Felix to inherit the Mortmain Estate, far less his son. But Felix’s elder brother never married, and had no offspring. And then he was killed in the war, shortly before Felix was injured.”

  “Felix’s son died,” Jacob said. “It says so in Who’s Who.”

  “No, you’ve forgotten what Griselda told you. At seventeen years old, he suffered shell shock and loss of memory. Frightened to death, he deserted. He risked being shot for cowardice, but he was one of the lucky ones. In view of his age and state of health, he was given a dishonourable discharge. Felix was mortified. Previously, he’d given the boy an allowance, but now he washed his hands of him. In his mind, his son was dead. And that’s what he led everyone else to believe. Including Who’s Who. But the settlement deed prevailed.

  “The boy was sick and desperately poor. But time heals some things, and he was able to make a little money, thanks to his remarkable talent.”

  “Talent?” Rolland demanded.

  “He inherited the Dobells’ love of art and was skilled at drawing. It took years, but he began to make something of his life.”

  Rachel moved away from the window, and walked up to Siddons. Without a word, she whipped off his spectacles.

  “Recognise him, Jacob?”

  Jacob groaned. Of course! How could he not have realised, how had he allowed the glasses and the goatee to mislead him? He was gazing into the eyes of the man who had first drawn his attention to Leonora at the Old Bailey. The courtroom artist.

  Siddons the birdwatcher was Felix Dobell’s son.

  29

  “This is nonsense.” Siddons’ Scottish accent had vanished. He sounded frightened. “Despicable.”

  “I have some sympathy,” Rachel said. “You were young and shell-shocked, and your father turned his back on
you. To add to your misery, you realised that you were… different from most men. Attracted to your own kind. And because you are handsome, despite your best endeavours to disguise the fact here at Mortmain, you attracted admirers. Eventually you were introduced to the Clandestine Club. At the Club you met Louis Morgans. Lulu, as he was known there. Also Reggie Vickers, who nicknamed you Doodle because of your love of sketching.”

  Siddons stared in silence, as if Rachel had hypnotised him.

  “You’d created a new life under a new name. Calling yourself Siddons after the tragedienne was an act of homage to your actress mother. Valentine Dobell became Valentine Siddons. You knew Morgans’ firm acted for the Dobell family, and cultivated his friendship. His father had paid the allowance to you on Felix’s behalf, until you were cut off. Did you pretend to have served alongside Valentine Dobell during the war? Perhaps you claimed you were both amused that you shared a Christian name. Whatever the truth, through Morgans you discovered that you were entitled to inherit Mortmain Hall.

  “That was a bolt from the blue. The law treats bastards harshly. You’d assumed you’d get nothing. Perhaps you weren’t even sure that Morgans understood the law correctly. It didn’t matter. Morally, you had a right to the estate when Felix died. He owed it to you. And your mother, who committed suicide after he deserted you both.”

  Siddons made a low, keening noise, and buried his head in his hands.

  “Still the obstacles were overwhelming. Your father was alive, but might die at any moment. Leonora, on the other hand, was in her early forties and in good health. She might live to eighty or ninety. After Felix died, she’d be tenant for life. Already she was selling off the Dobells’ treasures. As an artist, that infuriated you, quite apart from the sadness of losing the family collection. Even if you lived long enough to claim your inheritance, there would be nothing left.

  “You deserted Morgans for Vickers. Once he told you what you wanted about the Masqueraders and the plans for this house party, you had no further use for him. Your sole concern was Mortmain Hall. Having inherited your mother’s talent for acting, you’d assumed a false identity for your visits to the Mortmain Estate. Hence the tinted hair, thick glasses, and beard. To say nothing of the Scottish accent. This was vital, because one day you’d return in triumph as lord of the manor. Pretending to be a birdwatcher, you roamed as you pleased. Drawing an occasional puffin gave the lie a touch of authenticity.